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<title>so hold my hand (consign me not to darkness) by ivyalexandrias, milfdrcarmilla (ivyalexandrias)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28092207">so hold my hand (consign me not to darkness)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyalexandrias/pseuds/ivyalexandrias'>ivyalexandrias</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyalexandrias/pseuds/milfdrcarmilla'>milfdrcarmilla (ivyalexandrias)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>terminal hnoc brainrot [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>High Noon Over Camelot - The Mechanisms (Album), The Mechanisms (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, LISTEN I HAVE A LOT OF MORDRED FEELINGS OKAY, Minor Violence, Mordred (High Noon Over Camelot) has ADHD, Title from a Mumford &amp; Sons Song, because broken crown is a mordred song fuck OFF, kind of, no beta we die like Galahad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 20:14:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>991</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28092207</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyalexandrias/pseuds/ivyalexandrias, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyalexandrias/pseuds/milfdrcarmilla</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mordred has his father’s blood on his hands. Of all the things echoing around in his mind, frantic thoughts bouncing off of each other so fast he can barely make them out, that’s what he can focus on the most. His father’s blood is on his hands, staining his skin, dripping slowly onto the floor. His coat is so stained with rust and Saxon gore that it’s useless, so there’s nowhere to wipe them off.</p><p>It’s ridiculous, he thinks absently, that this is what breaks him. After everything he’d seen, everything he’d done, that the feeling of blood on his skin is what reduces him to a trembling, sobbing ball on the floor. His father’s lovers stare back at him blankly, dull eyes boring into his soul as he curls in on himself, remaining there as sensors and alarms start to sound.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Drumbot Brian (The Mechanisms) &amp; Mordred (High Noon Over Camelot)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>terminal hnoc brainrot [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2082618</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>so hold my hand (consign me not to darkness)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi. i have so many feelings about mordred. i read over this Once and i cba to check this for typos again, point them out if you notice any</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mordred has his father’s blood on his hands. Of all the things echoing around in his mind, frantic thoughts bouncing off of each other so fast he can barely make them out, that’s what he can focus on the most. His father’s blood is on his hands, staining his skin, dripping slowly onto the floor. His coat is so stained with rust and Saxon gore that it’s useless, so there’s nowhere to wipe them off.</p><p> </p><p>It’s ridiculous, he thinks absently, that this is what breaks him. After everything he’d seen, everything he’d <em>done</em>, that the feeling of blood on his skin is what reduces him to a trembling, sobbing ball on the floor. His father’s lovers stare back at him blankly, dull eyes boring into his soul as he curls in on himself, remaining there as sensors and alarms start to sound.</p><p> </p><p>He’s not sure how long he’s been there when a pair of boots come towards him, carefully stepping over Lancelot and Guinevere’s bodies. They stop in front of him, and he gathers himself enough to look up, tears tracking down his cheeks. The Hanged Man stares back down at him, expression sympathetic. Mordred can’t do anything but blink up at him for a moment, shock momentarily overtaking his other senses.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you mind if I sit?” The Hanged Man asks, and Mordred nods slowly, shifting slightly to the side where he sits on the step, letting him sit down next to the smaller man. Silently, the Hanged Man offers Mordred something, and it takes him a long moment to realize what it is. Carefully, he takes the handkerchief, wiping the blood from his hands as best as he can.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you okay with touch?” The Hanged Man asks when he’s done, and Mordred hesitates, before nodding. The Hanged Man wraps a careful arm around his shoulder, and Mordred leans into the touch almost instantly. The Hanged Man’s skin is pleasantly warm, like a pistol left to sit in the sun for hours. Which, he supposes, isn’t that far off from the truth.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” He finally whispers, after however long spent sitting on the step, leaning against the taller man in silence. He hears the Hanged Man give a slightly confused hum, and he elaborates. “For- for all of this. I-“ He sighs. “None of this was meant to happen. I just wanted there to be peace.” The Hanged Man is quiet for a moment, and when he speaks, his voice is gentle.</p><p> </p><p>“Peace is something made up by warmongers to hold over your head and keep you going. There’s- there can be truces, and agreements, but there’s never truly peace. It took me centuries to learn that, centuries more to accept it. That you were able to come so close to achieving that ideal, that’s nothing short of a miracle. You did the best you could, and you did it well. No one could’ve asked anything more from you.” The Hanged Man was right, because of course he was, but… he hadn’t been expecting to be told he had done good. He had been expecting admonishment, and condescension. Instead, he got understanding, and it almost hurt more. Mordred sniffles, wiping his eyes with a wet laugh</p><p> </p><p>“Wait a minute, how old <em>are </em>you?” That gets a chuckle out of the Hanged Man, the sound vibrating in his chest.</p><p> </p><p>“You know, I lost count a while back. Immortality tends to do that to you. You- you tend to forget a lot of things, actually. Not just how old you are. Important things from your past start to fade away. I… I think you’re lucky, being able to die. Having all of those memories so fresh in your mind.” Mordred nods slowly. The heat is becoming even more oppressive now, and he has to clear his throat a couple times before he can speak.</p><p> </p><p>“I- can you-“ He fumbles for a moment, sighing. “Can you try to make sure that this- that we’re not forgotten? Not just me, but Galahad, and the Pendragons, and… and Gawain. I know we’re going to die, but I don’t want us to just be another empty space. I know you said it’s hard to remember but please, just… tell our story.” The Hanged Man nods.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve made a life out of telling stories. I promise you, I’ll tell this one too.” Mordred relaxes, nodding gratefully. His head is beginning to swim with heat now, thoughts slipping from his grasp. The Hanged Man’s skin is almost painfully hot at this point, but neither of them seem inclined to let go of the other.</p><p> </p><p>“You know,” Mordred coughs, mouth dry, lips starting to crack. “I never learned your real name. Do you- can I hear it, before I go?” The Hanged Man is silent for a long moment, and if he had the energy, Mordred would turn to look at him. eventually, though, he speaks.</p><p> </p><p>“Brian. My name is Brian.” The Hang- <em>Brian </em>replies, and Mordred smiles faintly. <em>Brian</em>. He mouths it to himself, before speaking up one last time.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you, Brian.” He hears Brian whine softly, a mechanical sound that’s somehow more full of pain than any human cry he’s heard, but Mordred can’t get his body to cooperate, to assure Brian that it’s okay. He barely feels hot anymore, a pleasant numbness creeping over his body.</p><p> </p><p>Before he shuts down completely, though, Mordred swears he hears Brian sing. It’s a simple tune, something probably meant to be accompanied by a guitar, but the lyrics strike a chord in him, deeply personal somehow.</p><p> </p><p>Before Mordred can gather the strength to ask what they mean, though, he fades.</p><p> </p><p>Brian holds onto him until the station collides with the sun, and he is burnt away, along with everything else. For once, he wishes he had tear ducts left to cry with, to mourn this life taken too soon. As it is, he doesn't stop singing once.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>if you want a sneak peek at my mental state, i listened to once and future king on repeat while writing this.<br/>(as always i'm on tumblr @blindfaithblindhate!)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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